May 30, 2008

In your pale countenanceI read a trace of hints:the whip of winter wind,rioters who returnwith remnants of the Stasi troops’ rancorThe light is buried in the slumbering town,children and women from the Eastdream of a slice of bread and a gulp of wineSurely, you served methat night:the burst of bones in the crematoriumand the withered buds of wheatAnd the rest, a veiled blanket,as soft and moist as mistshaken by the struggling thunderdeep in the heart of the pine forestAnd so we lie down,and even our breath is chokedThe room becomes as silent as a crematorium chamberthe dissolving moans scorched by the fire of desireBehind your closed eyes,a woman. is burning Mein Kampf secretlyThe mighty words of the Fuhrer shattered into husks,like the ember of your body which crackles and dies outHistory, crumbs, desire, shrink once more into the earth,where the first and last steps fuse in one spot"Even you who walk with imaginationsoon will rest in an oriental region:a cozy soulin a span of Java.But my spirit will always wanderlooking for the promised land, somewhere."As wide as you imagine, thousands of miles,spread between Euphrates and NileBut your people has been seizing,but your vow has been snatchedBirdspass through the dimness of the building's shadow,but you see yourself, perplexed in the darknessspeaking in the language of the SouthernerThe sky is like an invert of a winnowing traywith the shivering of the Saturn’s ray"I want to return, Mother. Your child is still immature."

1997(Translated by Daisy Ekowati)

VIEW OF THE DUSK

So longthe child is preparing paper and penas if there is something to be written,maybe something secretly desired:a blister of lament, or of complaint,from someone who fallsSo long watching the twilightperforating the sandalwood branches,as if he understands its meaning:in a moment the atmosphere will be gloomy,maybe also scary,because the night is never lateto spread hatredPillars of light fadedas a shooting star, the idol whose legs are wide open all the timewill be seized by shadowsThen he will find himselflaying on his back in the grass field,looking up at the starsThen he will enter the dream world, which he createdSo long!But he shivers thereand doubts his unusual sight:a male cow is flying to the Southeast,falls deep into the belly of the limestone hilland the crows dispersetowards the crack of the tomb's entranceFor he knows there is no cow, there is no Southeast,and neither the crowsOnly the crushed hill,where a circus clown is building a sarcophagusHe feels his fingers trembling,between fear and fervor,paper and pen are in his hand without a scratch of line, not even a pointBecause he is stunned at the crimson sky:there is no clap of a heron's wing, only cotton lumpsshaping a face:an executioner who breeds boots and riflesInstantly he spits snatched by dry windthrown to the center of the lake,perforates into the plantsbecomes green, becomes yellow, becomes red, becomes blackbecomes restless, becomes risky, becomes curse, becomes vengeanceThen he hears someone cough loudlyovercoming the shriek of the Sphinx,bursting siren, tear gas, bulldozer,also rifle and panzerThe air is blackened by smoke,the smell of burned flesh and goodsAnd as usualsomeone is busy counting numbers, not lives,because, he said, they are just villainsno more important than ruinsSo longthat child is preparing paper and penas if there were something to be written,maybe something secretly desired:a gasp, or remorse,from someone who fallsSo long the paper and the pen are in his hand,too full of scratches and crosses,but he is powerless to write themNot because of giving up, or fear,he just feels, not hearing voices:a scratch of scream, hurried steps,or the sound of the soldiers' shoesHe doesn't see anything, except dusk and gunsSo long!